‘Shoo. Clear off. This is my spot.’
‘Stop flapping. There’s room for both of us.’
‘I always sit here,’ the female said.
‘My profound apologies, I am just getting my bearings, refuelling, and then I’ll be on my way. No need to get ruffled.’ He put his head on one side as if to smile.
‘Where you from then?’
‘The East End of London.’ He smiled again. ‘Heard of it?’ he said.
‘Of course. You one of those cockney sparrows?’
‘Hardly, my little Turtle Dove. Do I sound like a Cockney? As you will
observe I am much bigger than a sparrow. Want to see my pectorals?
‘Your what?’
He took a deep breath and expanded his chest. ‘Pectorals,
Darling. Chest muscles.’
‘I know that. My Belgian had bigger ones than you.’
‘Was he a homer?
‘Certainly not.’ That remark seem to upset her and she shifted her weight from one
foot to the other several times. ‘He was a real fella,’ she said, ‘cock-sure, always
chasing the birds when they gave him the come-on.’
He glanced up at the open window above them. ‘Have you always lived
here?’
My family has been here for years. This is our home. We was all born here.’
‘Not flown the nest yet? Not interested in horizons new?
‘Never been further than Lowestoft. We keep on this side of the river. Anyway
who’s asking?’
‘My name is Voyager.’ His chest rose again.
‘Coo. That’s posh.’
‘It’s aristocratic, my dear. I work for Mr Bond. Bond Birds of Stratford East.
I travel for Mr Bond. We arrived on the train this morning. Mr Bond likes
Lowestoft. He loves the music of Benjamin Britten.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘My dear, he was a world famous musician and a composer. He was born in that house opposite. Mr Bond remembers coming here as a boy. He reckons he saw the great man once. He often recalls having afternoon tea at the Thatch Restaurant and Fish and Chips at Pakefield Plaice.’
‘There’s still plenty to eat at them places. Me and the family often make a
flying visit. Pick up a crumb or two,’ she said.
‘Mr Bond remembers doing his courting underneath the Claremont Pier.’
‘Coo-ey. It’s still a great place for a bit of cooing and billing. Went there a few
times with my Belgian.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He disappeared. I waited but he didn’t come back to me.’ Her eyes
moistened.
‘Please don’t cry,’
‘He was a bit posh like you. Just flew in from somewhere and sat where
you’re sitting. For me it was love at first sight. He used to crow about his
ancestors.’
‘I can trace my blood line back 2000 years.’ He spoke quickly as if he had
said these lines many times before. ‘My fore bearers started a postal service and
others pioneered aerial photography. My great, great, great, great grand father was
a spy in the First World War.’ Even when she turned her good ear towards him she
could not follow him. Finally he said, ‘A distant uncle worked for
Reuters. You heard of Reuters?’
‘I‘ve heard of Rooters, the garden centre at Pakefiled.’
Bird-brain, he thought, but did not say so. ‘Do you know, I think I might be
related to your dearly departed. My parents came from Belgium.’ He glanced
again at the open window.
‘Coo-ey, listen to you. You’re worse than that show-off peacock at Petit’s
Farm. Isn’t it about time you were going back to Stratford East with your Mr
Bond?’
‘We’re not travelling back together.’
‘Don’t tell me, you’re flying all the way.’
‘Hopefully I’ll be following the A12 straight into Stratford and back to Mr
Bond’s.’
‘Do you live with him?’
‘Yes, I’ve got a loft conversion at his place.’
She took a step towards him. ‘On your way, then. There’s a tail wind. Need
a push?’
‘Not so fast.’ He took two steps away from her. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll linger
a little longer here. In case something else drops out of this window again.
‘What you on about?’ She tilted her head and looked at him with one eye.
‘I was sitting here a while ago, before you arrived, my Feral Beauty,
catching my breath and contemplating my route home when a wonderful delicacy
dropped at my feet.’
She looked at his feet. ‘What was it?’ she asked.
‘It was still warm, crisp on the outside and mouth wateringly soft in the
inside. Such a scrumptious change from my usual diet. The food at Mr Bond’s is
bland, dry and strictly vegetarian. It is a rare delight to eat a morsel of meat.’
‘What was it?
‘A flying creature with an iridescent body. Mr Bond is very careful to keep
them out of my loft. Says they carry diseases. I say, they may be dirty but they‘re
very delicious.’
‘Do you mean a bluebottle? My Belgian was partial to a bluebottle. They always
give me indigestion.’

Someone inside the building slammed shut the window. The pigeons shot into the air, collided, wobbled, adjusted their flights, circled Benjamin Britten House, then flew off together in the direction of the A12 and Stratford east. A few miles down the road at the Beccles junction the feral pigeon turned tail and headed back to Lowestoft. Later, confused and exhausted she dropped into the sea near Kesingland.

Everyone knows that pigeon’s can’t swim. However homing pigeons can fly over a hundred miles in one day; the distance between Lowestoft and Stratford East.
A Lowestoft Writer